Brothers, Dear
by RedQuarter
Summary: Its a wonder to behold how his brothers have kept this charade going for so long. However, Sherrinford has an advantage in that area, seeing as he has had the privilege of observing them their entire lives, after all. / In which Sherrinford is the smart one and Mycroft and Sherlock are fooling nobody (Mycroft/Sherlock holmescest through Sherrinford's eyes).


Honestly, they were quite obvious about it, _overtly obvious, _even. Frankly, Sherrinford is almost worried that nobody else has noticed it yet ( _almost- _worry is a malady that only fools are afflicted with, dallying about and fretting circles around themselves- it was all much below him.). Between the glassy eyed stares and the purposeful provocations (He vaguely remembers a passing remark from when he was younger, oh yes, what was it again? _Something about kids pulling your pigtails because they 'like-like' you.) _it's a wonder to behold how his brothers have kept the charade going for this long. However, Sherrinford has an advantage in that area- he has had the privilege of observing them their entire lives, after all.

Before Sherlock came along, there was only Mycroft and Sherrinford- three years his senior. Both were brilliant, gifted boys. They could see through anyone and everyone without the slightest effort. They could pick things apart piece by piece and analyze every minor detail until the item in question was stripped bear of any mystery it ever possessed, and all without lifting (and they never did if they could help it) a finger. The two of them existed with their own peculiar brand of power- one that sqaushed everything around them, creating pedestals for them- not by elevating them, but by lowering everybody else. And they had grown accustomed to this method of life, content to busy themselves with the burdens of kings. And then Sherlock happened.

Whereas Mycroft and Sherrinford had waltzed into existence with noses up and eyes hard, Sherlock had burst in. It was as if one moment there was two brothers, Sherrinford and Mycroft, and the next there was this supercharged flurry of life and energy bounding in and saying, _"Congrats, loves, here's a third." _Whereas the two elder Holmes brothers had been quiet, polite children, ever the good boys, Sherlock had been..._rowdy._ He was somewhat like a puppy, if Sherrinford were to describe him. Bursting at the seams with excitement, reveling in everything that was new to him and desperate, _absolutely_, _positively_ desperate to know and see and touch and feel and _**be. **_Sherlock never stopped bouncing about, or talking, dear God the minute the boy learned his first word they had all been doomed. Sherlock was vibrant and shiny- qualities the elder Holmes' had failed to attain, and thought he was quite stupid for possessing.

As Sherlock aged, they gradually realized that he was by no means and idiot- certainly not as intelligent as they were, but they digress. It was at that point that Mycroft (Sherrinford was too preoccupied with planning his elite overhaul of western society) began to indulge in his younger brother's company- or at least to do so _without_ the express command of Mummy Holmes. Even at the age of twelve he thoroughly believed he could hone his sibling into a sort of protege, perhaps as an expirement which could later result in another trophy on his Mycroft dutifully plays board games with Sherlock, and listens as he dreams up mysteries the likes of which Agatha Christie could never imagine- if only to to gain a few precious moments when he could teach his brother the proverbial ropes. Unfortunately, as Mycroft quickly assessed, the boy was too unruly to be anything but a waste of his time (He legitimately aspired to be a pirate for Godsakes.). So, Mycroft, very sternly, told Sherlock that he would no longer require his company, or, in fact, that would never inquire his company. Sherlock did not handle it well.

Sherrinford recalls the day quite clearly (no not in his 'mind palace'- Sherlock is the only one with that confounded creation.) It had been early spring. The trees were still barren and there was still a crisp chill in the air but the days had already begun to lengthen and the remnants of snow and ice were quickly disappearing. It was four fifty-seven exactly when he heard the row that ensued shortly after Mycrofts little revelation. Sherrinford had been in the eastern wing of the manor, the sitting room to be precise, nursing a cup of tea and trudging his way through a painfully easy mountain of advanced placement class work. At first, the sound had just been a noise, carelessly tossed into the air merely to die upon travel. It could have been anything really- neighborhood children galavanting about, a hiccup on the old piping system, even wind. However, the sounds continued exponentially until the words were practically written down he could make them out so well. Not that he wanted to make out the words- they were a nuisance and a predictable one at that.

Sherrinford remembers sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. The argument was rather one sided, with only Sherlock's voice echoing from wall to wall, shrill and slowly muffling as his thoat contracted with the formation of tears. _He was crying. _Between hiccups Sherlock lamented in passionate furry about how overwhelmingly _dull, dull, dull _Mycroft was anyways and how he did not need him- _not in the least thank you very much. _Sherrinford had to fight the urge to roll his eyes at how petulant his brother sounded, really. He was just about to go and sort the mess out, because he is seemingly the only one capable of doing so, so he can finish this dreadful work, when he hears Mycroft's cold, elegant voice cut through Sherlock's, _"If I am so unecessary in your life, than you shall have no problem leaving me alone!" _After that the slow creak of a heavy doors closure, small pattering footsteps, and silence. Sherrinford briefly entertains the notion of restarting in on his work- but sentiment. Sentiment is interesting.

Dinner that night is a hellish experience that Sherrinford loathes to think of. Of course, by that point Sherlock has cleaned himself up, but his behavior is still a cause for concern. He is quiet, unnervingly so, and aside from the motion of pushing food around on his plate, he is also relatively still. Mummy and Daddy notice of course- how could they not?- and try to force the matter out of him. The only response granted them, however, is that Sherlock is 'thinking' and they should please him to it. Mycroft, on the other hand, is delightful as usual. He makes inquiries to the current happenings in the lives of his kin (despite holding to genuine interest in such matters) and answers all questions directed his way accordingly. Not a hair out of place with him. Sherrinford finds himself apart distant during the meal, busy analyzing every move of each of his brothers and more or less mentally responding to it. This only served to further their parents unease, though, thus allowing an aura of sheer displeasure to settle over the table. He's almost grateful when Sherlock excuses himself (well, not excuses persay, more like blatantly exits- Manners never were Sherlock's area of expertise.), and he's not the only one who watches him go with satisfaction. Mycroft's gaze also follows Sherlock out- not with any discernible emotion to break his facade, but just _watching. _Sherrinford personally thought, no _knew, _that that gaze said everything anybody would need to know. Anybody, except Sherlock, apparently.

After that Sherlock grew colder, and more distant. He slowly closed himself off more and more, as if he were trying to disappear inside of himself. He was a mimicry of Mycroft- or, at least, that was his goal. (Sherrinford knows this to be true because one day ,fed up with these antics and sixteen at the time, he took one glance at this poor imitation, huffed, and said, as follows: "Why on earth would you want to be like Mycroft? _He is an idiot." _Though, he will never admit it, this was his own belated attempt at comfort, and he did not expect any sort of reply {Which, in hindsight, he should have. He's since learned that Sherlock lives, almost _purely_, to have the last word.}. When he ended up receiving one he was quite mystified. Sherlock had stared up at him with steely blue-grey eyes and never missed a beat as he uttered it, _"Mycroft doesn't need." _If he'd had one, Sherrinford's heart would have broken.) The inherent problem with this, however, was that Sherlock is distinctly emotional. Mycroft and Sherrinford were as cold as ice and able to be so because they did not feel what was expected and certainly not in strong degree- and hadn't the slightest as to why they should. Sherlock, however, _did_ feel these emotions; he felt the need to be liked and the sadness when he wasn't, he felt the need laugh and smile when happy, and the need to yell and defend when angry. Where the elder Holmes' were simply not feeling, the younger was blatantly suppressing and it was bound to come to head.

At first Sherlock held up well- remarkably well, really, considering the circumstances and how others might react. Primary school was torture for all of them, _dreadful, even, _but it was the worst for Sherlock. He was too precocious and brash. He could never keep to himself, and it often led to perceived societal discourse. The professors thought him an insolent brat (Sherrinford wholeheartedly agrees) and his peers considered him a freak and we're not in the least shy about telling him so. Naturally, Sherlock maintains a farce of being completely unaffected, but it was all slowly crushing him, and it should have been expected, seeing as the boy remembers everything. He remembered every word spat at him, every whispered remark in his direction, every glare flashed at him, _every single one. _They were all marked and categorized, filed away and shoved into the darkest corners of his mind palace until they began to spill over. They noticed it in small things at first. Sherlock would close the door to his room when he entered it or he would spend ten minutes just to tie his shoes. It was no danger, until the symptoms escalated. Sherlock barely ate, opting instead during meals to stare off into the abyss, and he barely slept either- the staff had reported seeing him wondering the grounds late at night. He was being drowned in his own mind, letting waves of memories pull him down and hold him under- tasting the salt ebbed out of wounds that still stung. He needed a lifeguard.

One morning, Sherlock just doesn't come to breakfast at all. Sherrinford and Mycroft are both there of course. Sitting at the giant oak table, eating their breakfast in silence across from one another. The only sound is the scraping of utensils on glassware and the rustle of fabric as a fifteen year old Mycroft continually moves his wrist to check the time. Sherrinford notices. He wipes his mouth, _"You want to do something." _At this Mycroft looks up and points his nose up as if the entire idea is beneath him. A grunt _,"Hardly." _Sherrinford recalls raising his eyebrow at this. It's laughable that Mycroft thought he could lie to him, of all people. Mycroft rolls his eyes, to say _I'm only doing this to appease you _and stands quickly marching in the direction of Sherlock's room. Sherrinford followed shortly after, but _only _to satisfy his curiosity.

Mycroft had not bothered to knock on the door before barging in (Sherlock later calls him rude for this- Sherrinford Sherlock the pot). He closed the door fully, a nod to his OCD and Sherrinford took the opportunity to listen in from outside the door - simply out of curiosity, nothing more. He can hear the ruffle of bed sheets as Mycroft joins Sherlock and the condescending in his tone is palpable when he says his name ,_"Sh_er-_lo_ck." Sherlock sniffled. Sherrinford, knowing his brother, had expected some grandiose expression of discontent, not a chw of weakness. Sherlock, with his brash tendency to blurt out his every thought, was tenfold more likely to reach into the very back of his throat and use every last vocal chord to scream _'get out,' _than to be anything even remotely submissive. However, as it was, the next thing Sherrinford remembers hearing wasn't a biting insult, or a challenge of authority. Sherlock's voice had sounded so small and frail, not unlike the mew of a dying kitten, aford has wondered if he himself had ever sounded this way... _So...fragile... _He'd hoped not- it would be a terrible stain upon his pristine reputation. _"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"_ He'd asked. Sherrinford had to keep himself from scoffing at that. Honestly, the boy was even more daft than he'd previously thought. As if _they _were the the lesser beings. The Holmes brothers were certainly not defective- no, in fact- Sherrinford knew that they were _perfected. _The highest possible level of of human, the quintessence of life. They were below nobody and Sherlock ought to have known that- but then again he never was the smart one. Mycroft, who mistakenly believed himself to be the smart one, should have taken it upon himself to inform Sherlock of their status, but he did not. That day, Sherrinford heard not one other word from that room, and as far as he knows, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft attended school. Sherrinford hadn't the time for dwelling on it, of course, and let them be. Sometimes- in the back of his mind- he wishes he hadn't. They had both just been wastes of each other's time, after all.

Soon, Mycroft had begun attending University with him. The two of them wheeled their way to the too quite easily not like other people, but that's not to say that they don't know how to interact with them. Their professors were intrigued by them, baffled that such creatures existed. They sought to challenge Mycroft and Sherrinford by piling on as much work as possible- it's suffice to say that neither of them ever got around to phoning home. What they knew of their little brother, only came from short, uncomfortable visits home on holiday. As far as they knew Sherlock was perfectly fine, going round and round the garden with Redbeard (Sherlock's dog- their parents were worried that with his brother's away that he may grow lonely, so they got him that mangey mutt. God knows why he adored the thing so much.). It wasn't until one particularly memorable Christmas holiday that they were proven wrong.

Sherrinford had graduated (with honors, of course) not to long before. And it has seemingly paid off- seeing as he was now a high level government worker. He was always occupied by the waging of small wars and constant economic crisis. He didn't have time for his families charades, but nonetheless he ended up spending Christmas week with them. And evidently so had his annoying, little shadow- or in other words, Mycroft- who at the time was in his finishing year of University. For the first few days of their stay, they didn't see Sherlock at all. Come to think of it, they hadn't seen Redbeard either. The only logical conclusion was that the boy was avoiding them- and they were content to leave it be. It's not as if they _wanted_ to associate with each other. Reviewing it, though, Sherrinford thinks it would have been better had they bothered with one another sooner.

God fear the wrath of Mummy. It was her, who on Christmas Day, finally forced Sherlocks appearance ( "_It's a family day," _she had said. They all thought it was positively hateful.). He made himself scarce throughout the day, only making brief five minute obligatory appearances- during which he was less than amiable. Mummy had finally had enough if it by the time dinner came round. She threatened to drag their dear baby brother by the ear if he did not remain for the whole of it. She does not make empty threats, and so dinner found all three Holmes brothers unhappily seated at the table. It took _just a little over _five minutes for them to figure out why Sherlock had been hiding himself away- though they were both somewhat skeptical about the conclusion.

Sherlock had kept fidgeting as if he were unnerved, and Sherrinford had noticed that his hands shook as he passes most of his food down to Redbeard. His eyes kept darting around behind his curly black fringe- they were red and his pupils were dilated. _Drugs. Sherlock was on drugs. _Sherrinford himself found the entire thing to be rather interesting, and had kept watching Sherlock throughout the meal, until Mummy had finally relinquished her hold on them. Mycroft had clearly seen the same behavior in his brother, despite pretending he hadn't, and sought out Sherrinford afterwards. Sherrinford hadn't even looked up from his book to see his face. He merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and turned the page, _"So drugs then?" _ Mycroft face fell and his expression considerably darkened. _"Cocain, presumably." _Sherrinford remembers having to bite his tongue in order to stave off the overwhelming urge to throw out a sarcastic '_lovely.' _ They talked no more of the subject- finding but unecessary to lament on what they both already know. By mid afternoon the next day Sherlock was in rehab and vehemently refusing to speak to either of them. The eldest Holmes brother doesn't have to ask- he knows the entire treatment plan was orchestrated by Mycroft. Unfortunately, this is not the last time that this happens (The second time is shortly after Redbeards demise.). Sherlock is in and out of rehab for years, and never once did Sherrinford visit him when he is..._like that. _He hears that detox is unpleasant, persay (Or maybe he just disn't want to see his baby brother like that.) , and besides, Mycroft is _always _visiting. He figured the hospitals already had their hands full with his pesky little brothers. Funnyer could tame Sherlock. He only ever did things if they were on his own terms.

Sherrinford takes it back, actually. It's not _funny, _it's _**hilarious. **_To think, the only person that could convince Sherlock to stay clean was a painfully, to use Sherlock's wording, _dull, _middle aged, overworked detective inspector with a failing marriage. And the poor bugger, Sherlock couldn't even remember his name half the time. Lestrade, his name was, actually met the youngest Holmes during one of his more painful 'recovery' stints. Sherlock was twenty one, and it was his fifth time in treatment, brought upon by a nearly fatal overdose. Sherrinford believes that the detective had been visiting his wife at the time- painkillers, evidently. To say that the two hit it off, would be a bit of an exaggeration.

Sherlock is almost animalistic in his curiosity. He let's nothing stand between himself and the absolute truth- and well, he's said it before _the game is always on. _Sherrinford assumes that when Lestrade checked in at the visitors desk that day, Sherlock automatically deduced that he too was part of the game. So he played him. Evidently, his first words to the detective inspector were, "_Why are you visiting her?" _Needless to say, Gregory was probably quite flustered by the question, particularly because it had a rather simple answer, _"She's my wife, of course I'm going to visit her." _Sherrinford can see Sherlock narrowing his eyes and sizing up the inspector, _"She's cheating on you." _ Evidently, Lestrade was vastly offended and went off on a tangent of how-dare-you's, and you-don't-know-me's, which Sherlock paid no heed to before explaining, somewhat arrogantly, every deduction in his favor. Lestrade did not see his wife that day, and he did not return to the clinic again for some time.

The next time Gregory visited had nothing to do with his wife. According to records, he made no move to sign himself in either. CCTV footage rerouted from Mycrofts phone to his, showed Sherrinford that Lestrade waltzed in, point blank, and a beeline for the youngest Holmes, who was lounging (_sulking, the child) _on the communal roomHe was curled in on himself like a stubborn turtle of somesort, absolutely refusing to be bothered. Sherrinford has no idea what was said between the two, but he saw Sherlock's face light up at the prospect of it, not with a smirk- the one that twists his features into a grinch like mask to tell the world just how clever he is- but with a genuine a smile the likes of which hadn't been seen since first mate Sherlock overthrew Captain Mycroft. The oldest Holmes, does, however, know that Sherlock started solving cases for the man after his release, and that he has not been read admitted to rehab since. He'd almost say that he's proud, but then Sherrinford also knows that Mycroft orchestrated the entire meeting. _Really now, Brother Dear? How predictable_.

So, no, it was not the least surprising. In fact, no matter how taboo or audacious the act was- it was also extremely _boring. _Now, keep in mind, normally Christmas holiday with the Holmes Brothers was at least mildly entertaining. There was even a cake thrown once. That being said, the 23rd consecutive one in which all three of them were present, was relatively calm. And that is precisely what gave it away. The entire week Sherlock and Mycroft actually got along. The still mad small jabs at each other _(How's the diet going? Fine thank you, still a virgin?) _of course, but there was less venom behind them, almost as if they were just for show. To think any show could fool him, _ridiculous. _Sherrinford was the smart one after all. That's why he easily saw all the other factors as well. Despite what his brothers may think, not making out in front him is not being covert. He still saw the signs. They locked eyes at any given moment (at one point he believes Sherlock actually had the audacity to wink.) ,they stood in much closer proximity to one another than on previous occasions, they were both significantly less standoffish , and the way they would look at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking was so sweet that it was _sickening. _Sherrinford couldn't stand it, and was immensely thankful when the week was over. That didn't stop him, though, from seeking revenge for being treated like an imbecile. Exactly one hour after they have all vacated the manor he send them both an email containing only one sentence- _Who's going to tell Mummy?. _


End file.
